


Points for Showmanship

by Write_and_Wrong



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Captivity, Drugged Sex, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_and_Wrong/pseuds/Write_and_Wrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bull and Dorian are trying to slow a slaver caravan from reaching its ultimate destination when their plan goes awry.  Backup is coming but not quickly enough so the former Ben-Hassrath has to get creative.</p>
<p>Bull uses Dorian's body as a delay tactic to buy time...but it may very well backfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gone Awry

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for a prompt over at the DAKM: To rescue Dorian from [mercenaries/tal-vashoth/venatori/slavers] Bull has to "put on a show" while he waits for back-up to arrive. 
> 
> Dubcon rating is for the session with Bull/Dorian.

Bull and Dorian had been tracking the hired mercenary company for almost a week, waiting for a force of soldiers and scouts to catch up with them. The band they were tailing was working as slavers and they had a lot of innocent people they were going to turn over to Red Templars, by the intel. They even had a pet Tal-Vashoth--too short and horns shaped differently than Bull's, curling back at the tips instead of straight up. Under cover of darkness, Bull imagines drunken men wouldn't notice the difference between himself and the other qunari. He may have cause to use that if the Inquisition's people don't hurry up.

They had been a three-day march from the base in enemy territory where the slaves were destined when the duo knew they had to stall. Inquisition reinforcements were coming, just a bit behind schedule. "A bit behind schedule" at this point was very nearly too late. Thus they decide to use Dorian as bait, a plant inside the ranks as it were, Bull hanging back to make certain nothing went belly up. He kept all the 'vint's things, his bag and his staff and leaves him camped just ahead of the slavers, knowing full well the men won't pass up another body to sell. They fall for it hook, line, and sinker and capture a 'sleeping' Dorian as an added bonus for the Templars. Bull thinks back on the conversation they had just beforehand and winces.

_"Bull. Amatus." It warms his heart at the same time he flinches, nerves already raw. Dorian is in his lap, hair dishevelled and messy, and is absently running one long finger over each scar on Bull's forearm. "Promise me something."_

_"Name it."_

_"If I...if this doesn't go as expected, if we do not pull this off-'_

_"Kadan." It's a warning, gentle but firm. He doesn't want to go there, not right now. Of course the 'vint doesn't yield._

_"-no, listen to me. If something goes wrong, I want you to kill me. I would rather that than-" Dorian swallows with an audible gulp, his thoughts straying to whispers in red "-than the alternative."_

_"They would have to get through me first, Dorian."_

_"Promise me."_

_"I--"_

_" **Amatus.** "_

_"Very well, Kadan. I promise." He lifts his hands, kisses the inside of each of the mage's wrists. "They will have to kill me, too, if it comes to that."_

_"Well then, let's neither of us make with the dying, agreed?"_

 

They hadn't planned on one of the men being a former Templar; even less so the slavers having a collar on hand to stifle the 'vint's magic. Dorian was a man outnumbered and had not fought back but the attackers, knowing what he was, had still overdone it when they jumped him. It had taken every ounce of restraint Bull had not to surge out of cover when he'd heard the mage's strangled yell, mana stripped away when the Smite had hit him. 

Instead of going to his rescue Bull had followed the plan. He swears under his breath, keeps quiet, and flits at the edges of the slaver's caravan. He _is_ a spy, or was, and knows how to do recon without being seen. Varric would be unsettled as shit if he realized how close the Bull could get to you in the woods, in broad daylight, and you not know he was there. He watches, he waits, he trades birds with the coming scouts so they get to him in time. All the while, he watches the bastards manhandle his mage into a wagon each morning and onto the ground each night. They seem afraid of the potential of his magic, even though Dorian is collared. He's also unconscious, bound hand and foot and _gagged_ but still he seems to inspire nothing but worry in his captors; they leave him be, almost to his detriment. Bull shudders and knows it's better than the alternative.

He also knows he isn't going to make it waiting for backup. He feels the need to protect Dorian as a physical compulsion; he is selfishly single-minded in this. Even though he knows they _have_ to rescue the slaves, can't allow the Red Templars more people with which to grow lyrium, he can't help but fret over what will become of him if he loses his mage to do it.

 

The raven he receives confirms his accomplices are closing distance so Iron Bull takes his chance when it comes. A couple hours past nightfall on day two, he acts as the group sets up camp and their unspeaking qunari is on watch. Whilst the others secure slaves in their big, barred carts as well as their pack beasts for the night, Bull preps. It is not long at all before the slavers have broken out the bottles and are deep into their cups--inside friendly territory, a day from payout, they have nothing at all to fear.

Or so they think. Bull doesn't know how they tamed their Tal-Vashoth into obedience and he doesn't care, he just waits for the qunari to draw close through the shadows before palming his mouth shut and slicing his throat. The struggle is over before it starts. Bull drags the body away, hiding it well out of view of the camp and trading the dead man's harness for his own. One less thing for the slavers to notice as he ever-so-slowly picks up the patrol where he'd cut it short.

Bull knows they've kept Dorian separate from the others, tossed in the back of a supply wagon like a sack of dried beans that they're afraid might sprout demons if left to his own devices. Seems that way, anyway, because Bull's seen them dosing him with enough toxin to drop a bronto. He can smell the shit a half-mile away: not really serious stuff, a mixture one can buy anywhere, mostly used to put people under for surgery in small doses. Large doses, however....Bull growls. The stuff is basically a poison. He doesn't want to think about that.

He finds the wagon away from most of the drinking and activity, giving his surroundings a cursory glance before pulling the canvas flap open and peering inside. Dorian is there, curled loosely into a ball as though sleeping, his bound wrists tucked up against his chest. It's impossible to tell he's not actually sleeping, as at some point one of the slavers had tied a thick black blindfold over his eyes. _These guys are not used to mages_ Bull thinks, for roughly the 300th time. There is still a heavy brown leather collar fastened around Dorian's neck; he is still gagged too. When the qunari lifts him out of the wagon, his head lolls back on his neck and his weight is completely languid in Bull's arms. He grabs a couple of blankets from the pile and steals into the shadows behind the wagon, hidden but not; if he's noticed, it has to look semi-natural. He has to make sure the mage is not in imminent danger before he gets any more strung-out worrying. The blankets make an impromptu bed of sorts, a large rock serving as the headboard, and provide a little cushion as Bull gently puts down.

Bull leans down over Dorian, awkward in a harness that doesn't fit him properly. He presses one finger to the gentle slope of the mage's neck, feeling the pulse beneath slam at irregular intervals, stammering and fast against his hands and the leather of the collar. That would be the poison, Dorian's system responding to a dangerous overabundance of depressant by trying to burn it off as quickly as it could. _Assholes are lucky he didn't keel over an hour after they dosed him the first time_ Bull thinks, let alone the numerous times after that. The tightness in his throat leaves him feeling like he's gargling bile over the implications of that thought. He places one finger under Dorian's nose, feeling the little puffs of air, shallow but steady. 

It's because he's focusing so hard that he doesn't hear them coming.

"Hey ox, th' hell do you think you're doing?" comes a drunken slurring from right behind him. He freezes for a moment, trying to gage whether he can get to his feet, grab his beltknife, and kill the man quietly before others hear him.

"Looks like the ox likes the pretty boy," a second voice joins in, the two of them chortling together. "First time I've seen him take any kind of interest in anything unless he's told."

_Shit._ He realizes how he looks, a great hulking beast bent over a prone, trussed-up mage who is clearly out of it.

Taking a steadying breath Bull decides to ignore them for the moment, hands sliding down Dorian's muscular chest and stomach. His motions are slow, curious, meant to catch the attention of the men watching; in his head, the former Ben-Hassrath is grinding though as many options for retreat as he can while he simultaneously makes sure no one's beaten the mage when he wasn't looking. There is some way out of this he hasn't thought of, some way to buy time for the Inquisition's reinforcements to arrive. His hands keep roving as he thinks, more out of habit than anything. His calloused fingers find their way to Dorian's hips and pause, squeezing, a warm pressure in a familiar place.

_Very_ familiar, for as the Bull tenses, Dorian's torso contracts out of reflex and he arches his back just a bit. A breathy little moan sneaks free from behind the gag. Behind him, Bull hears meat thunk into meat as one slaver elbows the other.

"Hey Jenkins, come look at this--the mage likes the big savage!"

"He shouldn't even be awake," a newcomer contends but there's a note of curiosity in his voice. The half-consumed bottle in his hands pauses halfway to his lips as he watches.

"Don't think he is awake. Don't seem to be stopping him from twitchin' like a chantry boy in a brothel, though." There was a momentary pause, then: "What're you waitin' for, ox-man? Keep going."

_Hmm. **That** he could work with._ From the last letter he'd gotten from the Inquisition's people, they were only a few hours behind and that had been after the slavers had stopped for the night; the cavalry of sorts _had_ to be close. He'll have to give the slavers a show, he decides; he can't risk them noticing something is amiss. As beautiful as Dorian is it shouldn't be too hard to keep their eyes on him. _...Sorry Kadan._ The Bull knows Dorian would be mortified at what he was about to do and settles on hoping he can explain himself when they get out of this. _If_ they get out of this. Something deep down in the qunari's heart strains a little but he'll gladly beg forgiveness if this works.


	2. Delay Tactic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be saucy bits :3 Also! This work assumes Bull and Dorian are both in an established 'something' and that they have partaken in BDSM from time to time. From their banter and the cannon Bull romance, I think it's a safe bet. :) (Thanks LaiKinSBC for bringing this up!)
> 
> I do feel the need to mention that aside from my one other fic, this is the first smutty smut I've done, so...be gentle?

Bull takes Dorian's wrists in one hand, hauling them up and out of his way. He doesn't fight even when a powerful yank rips the cloth of his shirt to tatters. It's one of his simpler ones, almost no extra buckles or adornments, but the mage still would have balked were he aware. The 'vint lays prone throughout, not reacting beyond a gentle shiver when the Bull divests him and leaves him bare to the waist. Bull wastes no time, leaning down to kiss a sloppy line from his neck to his navel, stopping to lap at a puckered nipple. When his teeth brush against it, bite down on one of the mage's more sensitive areas, Dorian curls up and moans. Bull feels his own cock twitch, his pulse quickening, as he more feverishly lavishes attention on his indisposed target. 

His sensitive ears pick up a fast, thumping noise behind him. Another voice lets out a soft groan and the Bull knows his audience is as affected as he is by the spectacle he's providing.

_Good._

Dorian's moans are quiet but intoxicating, growing steadily louder as Bull continues ravishing the man. The 'vint's skin is flushed dark from the bottom of the blindfold all the way down his chest, the sheen of sweat highlighting the definition there. With all the nipping and scratching Bull's doing--all strategic, all in places he knows are erogenous for the mage--Dorian is panting and writhing under Bull's hands and mouth, his body responding in all the right ways. Bruises the shape of the qunari's mouth bloom, peppering unblemished swarthy skin with the marking shades of deep violet. Dorian squirms when teeth clamp down on his shoulder, torso, and hip _just_ hard enough to dot the purple with dots of red.

Following the path down the grooves in the muscle highlight down Dorian's abdomen, Bull drags a nail over one iliac crest, twines his fingers into the ties of the mage's trousers. It did not take that proximity to know he had coaxed some life back into a different part of Dorian with his ministrations, and as he drags a heavy hand up his partner's inseam he feels his first real pull of hesitation in the form of quiet pleading.

" _No,_ " a large hand ghosts up the inside of his thigh and Dorian whimpers, twisting away from the invasive touch. It is a pointless gesture and the Bull holds him still easily, getting more aroused despite himself. Dorian shudders, going still but shaking; it doesn't deter his cock from filling, either, as a dark chuckle from one of the slaver's drives home. Bull growls a bit to show his excitement to the crowd, leaning down to breathe in the mage's scent, biting his shoulder and kneading the smaller man with his other hand. He holds himself back a moment longer before tearing the material of Dorian's breeches, ripping them open and pulling the material down to find an unwelcome surprise.

 _Damnit Kadan_. The mage is wearing his normal smallclothes--that is, silvery, soft things that are clingy and altogether too alluring for Bull's comfort just then. The mage's arousal is patterned, obvious behind the tight silk. One of the slavers grunts in appreciation, proves Bull's point. The Qunari changes tactics and shifts to kneeling beside the mage as he further rips the light grey fabric of his pants. They're tailored tightly and cling and Dorian's renewed struggling isn't helping him any. Finally he growls, annoyed, and yanks what remains of the garment down to tangle with the cord binding Dorian's ankles. 

The slavers are an attentive bunch, watching with something much less wholesome than polite interest as the qunari busies himself propping a pile of furs to lean against. He turns and sits down, drawing the mage back against him while fussing with the cord around his wrists. He reclines, pulls the him back against his chest. He leaves Dorian's wrists bound but frees up enough cord to loop loosely around his left hand, quick but now more in control. He then laces one leg between Dorian's, hooking his heel on the rope binding his ankles and pushing him a little upward, splaying his knees. 

With his tied ankles pulled back and the weight of Bull's leg keeping his own spread open, Dorian can neither close his legs nor free them. His arms arm held up and out of the way of both access to whatever Bull wants and keeps the view of every inch of him unobstructed. Essentially, every bit of Dorian is laid out on Bull's chest on full display for the men watching. The mage is panting more rapidly, groaning as Bull drags his nails down along his ribs.

Bull's hand continues south and he works his large fingers over smooth silk, the only clothing Dorian has left. He kneads and gropes, teasing at the mage's stiffening cock. Dorian's breath hitches at the touch, head thrown back against Bull's broad chest as he shakes it from side to side, both denial and request.

"No no no," the mage pleads, tries to pull his hands back down to chest level and fails. " _Please_." Bull ignores the pain that hits his heart like a sundering blade; he smothers the feeling, squashing it to focus instead on the delicious sounds spilling from the mage's lips and the hot press of his skin against the Bull's own. This is nothing the two of them haven't done before, albeit in private. When Dorian speaks again his voice has gotten breathier in his arousal; however much he's fighting, his body is losing the battle for him. "Please, don't _mmmph_." Scarred lips press the words firmly back in as diligent fingers free the mage's privates from the damp silk containing them, the fancy garment ruined in one hasty swipe. 

Bull swallows the small wail that the mage lets out and waits for a moment, teases and pinches and presses just so. Dorian's squirms against him and Bull holds him fast, drowning the rising tide of moans with his lips and brings the mage's wrists down, wrapping his arm around Dorian's chest to anchor him, his fist keeping Dorian's arms from thrashing. Taut muscles flex in the firelight, teasing everyone watching as the mage twists, trying to free himself. He can't get far enough away to free his mouth to cry out; each time he yanks the Bull clenches his first around Dorian's member and he whines, and the cycle repeats. 

Bull's audience has grown and, better yet, they are utterly transfixed as they watch him coax the mage to hardness. He’s being rougher than he normally would, forcing the issue with tugs and crude massaging until Dorian’s length is throbbing in his hand. Whether they are so inclined or not, Dorian makes an alluring picture to men who often have to go many weeks between lays: his lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed a dark crimson. The fact that he's tied up and blindfolded probably isn't hurting. One of the mercenaries takes a huge swig of his drink, too transfixed to blink. Another licks his lips.

For all that Dorian preens endlessly about his good looks, Bull knows he'd be taken aback if he could see how awestruck the crowd is. Yes, they are a bunch of bastards and yes, they are drunk. Typically that combination calls for rowdy loudness, though, and not the quiet revelry of the moment. It's a testament to how gorgeous the mage looks, Bull knows. He relishes few sights more than the 'Vint in his bed, trussed up and begging for it. Right now, though, that thought also reinforces that he needs to ratchet up his showmanship if he’s going to keep their interest. Bull times it and releases Dorian's mouth just as he gives the mage’s balls a firm squeeze, rolling him between his fingers. The resulting cry makes tight heat surge into Bull's gut and, from the uncomfortable shuffling of feet, he’s not the only one who's got an erection over the performance.

Dorian is wriggling harder now; being louder, too. He’s also grown a little more lucid, getting control of himself enough that he can speak so of course he’s rambling and begging, mostly in Tevene, in between being stifled by kisses and the moans Bull drags out of him. The mage’s cock is hard, throbbing, driving him mad; the Qunari deliberately ignores it as soon as he notices the telltale shiver that starts at the base of Dorian's spine when he gets close. He knows how verbal the mage gets when denied; he's counting on it. He spares Dorian no friction at all after getting him hard, not allowing him release of any kind. Instead he bites at his neck, sucks bruises onto the smooth muscle of his shoulder, tasting like he always does of sweat and spices and something slightly sweet. Dorian struggles, keeps pulling on the ropes binding him, swears in a ragged whisper as he feels the heat of Bull's cock against the swell of his pert arse.

Timing merits a change of position so Bull pulls his leg back and shoves Dorian forward onto his knees, the smaller man off balance and wavering before managing to find enough equilibrium to stay upright. A couple quick yanks and the Qunari has freed his captive's legs from cord as well as the ruined fabric of his pants. The former spy repurposes the rope by using it to bind Dorian's tied wrists snuggly to the base of his throat. He circles the mage's neck twice, overlapping the collar that's keeping his magic suppressed. He's going to need both his own hands free for the next part. 

The 'vint flails at this new imprisonment hard enough that he almost chokes himself out, much as the Bull expected. It takes several long seconds but he can feel it the moment Dorian starts to shiver. Even drugged the mage is pretty sharp. He coughs, goes mostly still on his knees in the dirt; he understands his arms are well and truly stuck and stops tugging at his de facto choke chain. 

The audience is there, looming and dangerous, but as usual Dorian is holding most of Bull's attention just by being _Dorian_. Tied and hard, the noises the mage makes are driving him nuts, precum leaving a wet spot on the front of the trousers the spitfire mage loathes so much. The display seems to be working on the slavers, too, as more than one of them have abandoned all pretense and have a hand shoved down their breeches. The Bull growls long and low, freeing his own erection from his pants--the urgency isn't just for show, now. He finds himself hard-pressed not to laugh as one of the humans grunts at the sight. He imagines a low whistle of appreciation, too, but that might just be the heat of the moment.

Bull reclines all the way to the ground this time before he grabs Dorian's narrow waist in both hands and lifts, getting kicked twice in the side and leg for his efforts. _There is a never a time when he doesn't fight._ He places the mage over him, straddling his waist, the heavy thickness of his cock resting in the cleft of Dorian's ass. He tries to move away, tear free, but Bull's hands are vicegrips on his hips, clutching hard enough to bruise. The Qunari waits for him to still and he does, though he's shivering more pointedly. One huge hand clamps down around the base of Dorian's cock, two fingers circled and clenched hard enough to keep the mage from moving much. The startled cry that rips free of him is urgent and pleading and sexy as hell all at once, and Bull takes the moment of distraction as time to get himself ready. He spits in his hand, using the saliva and wetness at the tip of his hardness to slick himself as best he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and comments welcome! Thanks for reading!


	3. A Ruse Worn Thin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh but our clever little mage is waking up...

It's at that moment that a jarring smell drifts to the Qunari's nose, past the stink of the cheap liquor and the slavers, past even the heavy scent of sweat and sex. Sharp and pungent, diluted a little by the other smells and the faint breeze, but there's still no mistaking it: he's gotten a whiff of a smoke bomb. The slight tinge of nightshade, sweet and deadly, tips him off. He's never heard of anyone except Leliana's people using the flower in their flasks. The proximity and the intensity of the smell coupled with the lack of sound likely means they've dropped the scouts and are advancing on the camp proper.

_It's about fucking time!_ Just a little more, then, Bull realizes. Gotta keep their eyes on him to give the rogues time to flank. It also means he's got to be ready to get the hell out of the way when the action starts; gonna be difficult if he's _in_ Dorian when that happens, too. Right, then.

Bull firms his grip on Dorian's waist, lining him up and lifting. When he draws the 'vint back down he angles his cock and thrusts hard, hitting just right and sliding through into the tight passage with one fluid motion. The Bull's member is bigger than the human is built for, at least when he's going in without oil; he also hasn't opened the mage up first and the abrupt entry rips a keening wail out of Dorian. The motion of Bull's hips and hands drags the mage's arse flush to his pelvis, the taut ring of breached muscle clenching around the base of him. He doesn't know if its restorative magic, good Tevinter breeding, or a mix of both at work, but Dorian's tightness is always just as mind-blowing as it was the first night the two of them had stumbled to Bull's room drunk together. Little shapeless dots of color flare in his vision at the sensation and Bull can't help the low groan that rumbles loose.

Dorian's head is thrown back as he pants, beads of sweat running down his face and chest. Bull gives him a moment to adjust; the mage's spine curves forward and his fingers lace into his collar to keep the weight of his arms off the rope. The qunari half-thinks he imagines it, but no: he sees the other man's chin dip a fraction of an inch in a nod. Bull lets out a guttural sound and bucks; Dorian chokes as he slides up the qunari's length only to be grabbed at the apex and slammed back down, large hands splayed across his thighs as leverage. As he descends, Bull's hips rise to meet him and they seat together with an audible smack. From there their motion explodes into a flurried sequence of thrusts and sounds driven by Bull's rampant tempo: the mage's voice breaking over the gasping cries he can't contain; the deep, rumbling grunts of pleasure from the warrior; the obscene slapping of sweat-slicked skin on skin.

Bull loses track of how long it goes, mind blanking out to singular concepts, but he knows it doesn't take long. He shifts his angle to drive himself against Dorian's sweet spot to get the mage to scream; he does, his own cock firm and leaking, bouncing between them as Bull picks up the pace. The thrusting gets faster; the two of them get louder. The qunari's eye falls shut as molten heat flares from his core, surging up over him in a wave as he very nearly roars, emptying himself inside the mage. His chest heaves, great big steadying breaths that are still not as loud as his heart hammering against his ribs.

A drop of sweat falling from Dorian's nose brings Bull's brain back around, shaking him out of the aftermath and the endorphins, the hazy couple of seconds after his orgasm, as the small droplet lands on his collarbone. The 'vint is still straddling him, breathing just as hard. Bull's softening member slides free of those perfect ass cheeks as some of his seed dribbles down onto his pants. He loosens his death grip on the smooth, dark thighs quivering under his hands, sliding away from fresh, long bruises in purples and blacks. The mage is still shivering but it's for a different reason, now.

A rustle of movement on his blind side tears Bull's attention away. One of the slavers steps up beside them, lacing his hands into Dorian's hair and dragging his head back. The mage's breath catches and his body goes rigid, the stillness of prey before a hunter. The qunari feels him panic, feels him try to dig his knees in so he can't be pulled away and the drugs, apparently, are far enough gone that Dorian knows they've got trouble in earnest. Bull snarls a warning that is cut off by the interfering man's guffaw.

"Easy ox, you had your turn. Now the rest of us get a go." Someone behind them snickers as once again Bull's nostrils flare at the smell of flowers.

"You think he's even going to _feel_ you after taking _that_?!" Someone jabs. A couple others laugh.

"He's got a mouth, don't he?" The slaver, an ugly thing with sour ale on his breath, hooks his other hand into Dorian's collar and leans down to sneer. "A very pretty one, too." His tongue snakes out to trace the 'vint's' ear; Dorian shudders at the touch, tries to lean forward towards Bull. His retreat is stopped by a hard yank on his neck and hair, a whimper startled from his lips at the burst of pain.


	4. Downward Spiral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** **Warning for triggers!** **

"Get 'im Paul!" The slaver had a name, apparently, and a pressing desire to 'have his turn' as he'd put it. Dorian hears Bull snarl as he's pulled away by his neck and his hair but he doesn't hear the Qunari move, doesn't feel any reassuring warmth emanating from his lover as he had a few moments prior. Now, there is only a wave of worry that grows by the second, clouding out the hazy purr of arousal and the foggy residue of the drugs in his blood.

The slaver yanks Dorian up to feet that won't support him and the mage falls back against the man's chest. Mind whirring as ideas on _what to do_ spiral past him, the 'vint is woozy and weak-kneed from his round with Bull. He can't hold himself up and he isn't going to be able to brace for the fall, either; his hands are still stuck. Fortunately (or perhaps not) the man behind him catches Dorian's weight with one arm around his waist. He has a half-breath before he's choking, a rough hand clamped on his face as his mouth is invaded by a foul-tasting tongue. Unkempt beard and thin lips crush against his own and distantly, Bull snarls; Dorian tries to pull away and fails, uttering a strangled noise as the other male's tongue forces its way past his teeth a second time, lapping hungrily at the taste of him.

Paul releases his face and the rest of him too and Dorian falls to his knees, dragged away from Bull into the dirt. He's alone for a moment and laments being limited to what he can hear and feel...neither of which are promising right now. There is a the shuffling of feet through grass. A low, mismatched set of arrhythmic thumping sounds. The dark little chuckle of Paul closing in on him again, a physical presence behind him. The unending, low growl gurgling up from the Bull, close by but not close enough. _They have to have him pinned_ Dorian realizes and fractals of icy fear stab into his chest at the thought.

A hand shoves against the small of the Tevinter's back and he drops, losing what little balance he has and toppling forward. He hits the ground hard, gracelessly, and his clenched hands--still bound to his throat--punch into his neck as he catches his weight on his elbows instead of his face. 'Bad' is how jarred Dorian is left by the fall, pain sharp in his arms and shoulders; 'worse' is the fact that he's vulnerable now, so much more so that bile trickles up the back of his throat. He's on his knees and the points of his elbows, his ass up in the air and held there by the arm that has snaked back around his waist. The ache of the fresh bruises around his hips aren't nearly as bothersome as the scratchy lips pressing wet, slurping kisses all down his spine. He shudders.

"Already slicked and ready to go," he can feel the smile as Paul grins against his skin; very suddenly Dorian's crying out because Paul has shoved two fingers into his passage. "Andraste's _tits_ ," his abuser swears reverently, flexing and scissoring until the mage can do little but arch his back away from the sensations. "He's still tight!" 

"How in the hell--" starts one of the others. From the volume, he's close by. The hoarse quality of his voice is also probably not a good sign.

"Dunno, must be a pretty well-used little slut to bounce back so fast," Paul murmurs, the sentiment sliding into a groan as the taut ring of muscle clenches down on his thick, knotted fingers. He's no Bull, but the man's digits are rough with callouses and every few moments the coarse texture drags across a very inopportune place inside the mage. Dorian writhes as hard as he can but the slaver just laughs, spurred on by his struggling; a third finger slides home, twisting and fucking into him. 

" _Please,_ " he begs but the more important part _stop it, get off of me, get **out** of me_ dies in his throat, cut off by a new hand yanking tight on the cord there. Someone takes hold of his hair again, dragging his weight off his arms and dangling the mage in the air. The pungent smell of sweat and something bitter and masculine wafts to Dorian's nose, sickening and strong. _**No!**_ He wretches at the stink and slams his teeth together, refusing as the inevitable press of smooth, hot skin finds his lips.

"You want it," the man in front of him says, pressing his member more firmly against the mage's closed mouth, "Just open those pretty lips and give it a taste." The captive doesn't reply, keeps his jaw clamped shut, and the man's face twists into a snarl. He raises his eyes to his compatriot, though Paul is too busy fumbling his breeches open to notice at first. " _Oy!_ " The man positioned at Dorian's rear looks up, sees his buddy's glare, and grins.

Liquid heat licks at Dorian's abdomen as those damnable fingers drag across his prostate, suddenly slow and deliberate and _maddening_. The heavy pressure in his cock, lessened by the violation he _knows_ is coming, grows greater despite the screaming in his head. Paul does it again and Dorian strains. An unwilling flush paints him, blood darkening his cheeks as the sensitive spot is teased again and this time, he can't fully stifle the sound that escapes him.

Dorian fails more soundly at his refusal as Paul thrusts between his thighs, naked cock rubbing upwards against the mage's own throbbing length. He moans loudly, needy and hating it; The Bull had spared him no touches once they'd gotten going and the small dose of friction is amplified, electrifying to his neglected member. The slaver is still taunting him with his fingers, too, and the combination of assaults leads to a lapse in Dorian's concentration. Not a breath later the man in front of him succeeds, forcing himself into Dorian's mouth when another breathy sound forces his lips to part. The mage is repulsed, trying to pull away; the man behind him doesn't let him, far too impassioned in meeting his own ends, driving their bodies together as his fingers fall still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original plan was not to veer this way but I was enjoying the story a LOT and didn't wan it to end...so we had a mini-poll on the DAKM thread and all the Anons wanted to mix it up....and this happened. 
> 
> Sorry my dear peacock! I'll make it up I swear...


	5. On The Upswing

The Iron Bull is called many things. Huge. Stong. (Surprisingly) intelligent. Good at drinking. Excellent at breaking beds. Deceptive. A pain in the ass. And so on. The modifier for him that fits best at the moment is likely 'Enraged.' There are a slew of synonyms that also aptly apply.

'Fast' is not usually one of them, not something people expect of a massive qunari with a bum knee, but it's just one more way he plays his image to lull the sharper senses into complacency. The two men who are driving his eyesight into a wash of blood red aren't paying attention, absorbed instead on their violation of his man. The slaver holding his sword-point to Bull's throat is also waning, attention drawn to the sights and sounds of his fellows, forgetting he drew his sword to keep the savage at bay. Not a one of them expects it but Bull is on his feet and in the nearest human's face before the slaver has the sense or notion to step back, smacking the sword away with the flat of his hand. His captor's eyes have time to widen, but only just an iota, before his neck snaps; his body falls to the dirt but the Bull is already gone.

It's only three steps from him to the threesome he's going to make them regret. The Qunari educates the bastards with a lesson that won't have time to stick with one fluid motion: Bull's left first slams into a slaver's face, the inertia of the punch slackening the grip he has on Dorian's hair. As the bones beneath Bull's strike crack, the mage (freed from his frontal assault) slams his head into the man's gut and topples him even as he loses his own precarious balance. Bull snarls in approval and gets his fingers unclenched fast enough to snag the offender's collar and slam the hapless man into a nearby tree. As the Bull's body turns his right wrist gives a casual flick towards Paul. It's a blink before he's no longer supporting Dorian's weight, his fingers tugged free as he keels over. Bull bends over double, grabs a blanket from the ground; as he straightens he pulls it around his mage and the mage into his arms. The other slavers are just beginning to realize something is wrong as Paul falls over dead, hands stained crimson and a knife buried hilt-deep in his windpipe.

Shouting shatters the moment of realization as the slavers stare at Bull and Bull stares back, teeth bared like the savage they expect him to be, Dorian dragging in shivering breaths in his arms. The humans are too drunk and too dense to know what's coming before it hits them, Inquisition scouts and soldiers pressing in on them with no warning they were aware enough to catch. Footfalls close in from all sides; a slew of well-place arrows fly in and nest in unwitting flesh. In the scope of one breath, the slavers realize there's a fight only to find out they've already lost it.

Smoke that smells of nightshade flowers billows in the darkness behind them but Bull is already gone, hearing but not seeing the Inquisition's people flooding in between the trees.

He knows where he's going but Bull's night vision isn't the best, least of all when he's trying to get his blood pressure down to a point where he can see straight, red ebbing into something less certain. He knows his bloodlust, owns it and controls it, but the tender things tied to the man in his arms are much more broken terrain. He clutches Dorian against his chest, firm but gentle, covetous of something special he came _way_ too close to losing. 

The place he hid their belongings isn't far--ten minutes' hike, less since he's damn near running--and it's secluded. Given how close the scouts were and the fact that Bull hasn't heard any sign of being followed, he's not worried about pursuit from anything other than the ramifications of what he's done tonight. He's broken a rule they'd agreed on as far back as their first drunken tumble: to always ask before giving Dorian pain, to always check before doing something that might cause the mage undue duress. Bull knows he violated that trust tonight and is afraid to find out what that means for them. It was _needed_ , yes, but he'd still broken the rules. The accusation blares through his head like a mantra as he presses on through brambles and darkness.

You didn't ask.

You didn't ask.

_You didn't ask._

Worse, he'd been pinned long enough for those filth to get their hands on Dorian in earnest. Acid laces his tongue at the memory. Bull tromps onward, willing himself to outrun far more than the chase that wasn't coming. 

Finally the alcove, a break in the woods in the lee of some large rocks, comes into view. Bull manages to get the fire going and get one of their bedrolls out to sit on without putting Dorian down, fretting. He lowers them both as he sits, drawing over a pack he knows he needs.

"Just a second," Bull mutters, situating the mage between his knees with Dorian's back facing Bull's chest. He drapes the blanket around his lover's bare shoulders, nerves bunching up at his uncharacteristic silence--even the vint's breathing has quieted. A quick slice with a knife cuts the rope from the his neck but Bull doesn't go for freeing his hands next; he knows Dorian well enough to know what the first priority is and it's absolutely the thick band of leather around his neck.

The collar has done its job for the slavers but thankfully, it's not as well made as the ones Bull's people use. True Saarebas collars have locks that only open when given the proper command phrase, or with a specialized key. The one the slavers put on Dorian has a physical latch, albeit a strong one, but it takes the qunari naught but a matter of moments to crush the metal badly enough that the clasp releases. The enchantment gives out at the same time, dull leather lit briefly by a shimmer of blue light.

Dorian inhales sharply, hissing through his teeth as his mana floods back to him. Goosebumps line his neck and arms, the warm tingle of his magic at his beck and call as though it had never left. The thrum of power coursing beneath his skin is very nearly intoxicating and he soaks it in, flexing his hands.

Bull feels the back of his own neck tingle at the small burst of static the 'vint subconsciously gives off, tiny sparks lighting from the tips of his fingers as soon as the enchantment is gone. He's smiling behind his back despite the sting of the magic, knowing his lover is relieved--Dorian hates, _hates_ being Silenced. Growing up in the Imperium, magic is too ingrained in the way the mage does everything. He's proven correct as Dorian extends his tied arms, holding them away from his chest; their clearing flares brighter as the cords burst into flame and fall away, less than cinders before they hit the ground. Bull hears the happy sigh as the flicker of fire dies down, reaching forward to rub Dorian's back gently, feeling his smile fall away as the lithe muscles beneath his big hands tense. With a gentle tug Bull removes the blindfold. Now or never, no sense putting it off...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for all the wonderful comments! <3 Made me feel a lot better since I am rather gonna burn for this fic, I imagine o.O


	6. Reconciled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((ILU guys so I am sneaking and posting at work!! And the dreaded time warner guy is due this week))

"Kadan?" Trepidation slashes at Bull's chest, searing worry a different kind of roaring flame, stoked higher by the residual adrenaline of the evening. Dorian doesn't reply at first, just winces when he lifts his eyes and catches too much glare from the firelight from too many days in darkness. He goes still as his eyes adjust and once he can see he rotates himself, back to the fire, and fixes his sight on Bull. For a moment Dorian's frozen, clinging the blanket, knees tucked up to his torso. For a moment, he's scanning the Qunari and appraising what he sees.

It's barely a blink before he's surging up to kiss Bull fiercely; the larger man starts, jumps a little as he doesn't expect it. Dorian's limbs are all shaky and he can't hold himself long but for a few wondrous seconds he's kissing Bull like a drowning man gulps air, all urgency and raw emotion and uncertainty wound together. Letting out a tremulous, shuddering breath as he breaks the connection, the mage clings to Bull's neck for a moment before sagging down into his lap. His hands keep wandering the bigger man's chest, mapping and remapping well-known landscape.

Dorian's reaction loosens breath said landscape hadn't realized he's been holding. Fear is loud in his mind, louder than its been in a long time. Bull wants to say something, _anything_ but is having a hard time talking at the moment, finding his thoughts oddly muddled and his throat oddly tight, clenched closed by something he can't quite push through. Something undulating between lingering concern and crippling relief. Necessity buys him a little more time as he hears the 'vint give a dry, airy cough. _Dehydrated._ Without looking, he fishes a hand into his pack and finds a flask and a glass bottle--each of them a remedy. Patient, still not able to say anything, he holds a water skin for his mage, stopping Dorian when he's half done to drink a healing potion before letting him gulp down the rest of the water. As he finishes, silence reigns again, thick and stifling. Their only conversation partner is the crackle of burning tinder and the rustle of the wind through the dense canopy around their little clearing.

"You may stop self-flagellating now. I knew it was you." The words, mumbled against Bull's chest, are muffled and hoarse, but Dorian may as well have shouted them into his ear. A tight ball starts to unclench but Bull still isn't comfortable, still can't tell if the mage is fine or if he's just saying what Bull wants to hear. He can't see Dorian's face to gage his reaction, can blame exhaustion and the after-effects of his captivity for how fully the mage is enclosed in his embrace.

 _When he has his wits about him, it's **you** he'll be afraid of,_ a nasty thought insists. Voice a roughed rasp, he pushes past it. 

"How long did you know?" Bull asks quietly.

"Right around the time you ripped my smallclothes to shreds. Only you, Amatus, would take _that_ much pleasure from ruining my clothing." His use of the loving moniker eases more of the concern out of Bull's broad chest. Something like a blush creeps into the Qunari's cheeks but he can't keep the smile from his face as he strokes Dorian's arms with his hands, a little happy the mage can't see the physical relief in his features. 

"Clever of you."

"Clever of _you_ to use that particular set of skills as a distraction." A little shudder wracks his frame and Dorian nudges himself deeper into the circle of Bull's arms. "I am also quite pleased that they're dead. Wretched bastards, the lot of them."

True, but that was hardly the issue. "I was worried that..."

Dorian huffed a sigh, pulling one of Bull's hands into his own. "I'm not thrilled about it, Amatus, I won't lie to you. Before the drugs began to wear off...for a handful of moments I was frightened," Bull can hear the hesitation in the words as Dorian admits it but immediately the mage shakes his head, dismissing the tension he can feel creep into Bull's chest. "By the time I was even _remotely_ lucid I knew it was you. Before that, too, I think. There is no disguising the smell of you, I'm sorry to say. Once I had enough sense to worry, I worried they'd captured you as well." He flutters a hand, dismissive of his own tension this time. Back to the main issue at hand. "It got a bit dicey near the end," another shudder, "-but I am...it is not the first time someone has _forced the issue_ , so to speak." Dorian leaned away from Bull's chest, pushing himself back far enough to meet his lover's eye. "It is, however, the first time I have ever been saved from such."

"I shouldn't have let them touch you to begin with--" a slender, dark finger pressed to his lips stopped Bull mid-apology.

"The men that did it are dead. Everyone that witnessed it is dead." the mage explains as he forces Bull to look at him when he tries to glance away. "I am not damaged." He drags in a deep breath before going on, "While I have no desire to repeat the experience, I'm fine, Amatus. Besides...they got more than they deserved, frankly."

"What?"

"A show like that? With performers as skilled as _us?_ Come now. That's far more charity than we grant most of our enemies."

"Most of our enemies don't have my heart on a leash I can't risk breaking til the cavalry arrives," Bull growls, dark thoughts still niggling him. Dorian hums his assent in the back of his throat.

"It was not the best idea we've ever concocted, that's true. Still, forty men and women who no longer have slavery to look forward to were worth it." He lets out a heavy sigh, the kind that took chest, shoulders, and diaphragm to execute correctly. Grounding himself again, putting the veneers back up: the 'vint's preferred coping mechanism. Immediately after, though, Dorian surprises him by admitting "The preceding time was worse. I couldn't tell which way was up, Bull. The few times I could, I couldn't move or feel my magic. As soon as I started to get a grip one of them came back with more poison..." the Qunari gives his love a firm squeeze and Dorian shoos the dark thoughts for another time. Makes it easier to keep his imagination in check, and he can tell the same of Bull.

"I won't let that happen to you again, Kadan. Not ever. I'm sorry it happened at all." He pulls the blanket more firmly around the mage, hugging him more tightly than perhaps is wise. Bull should make Dorian eat, he knows; should clean him off from their escapade earlier, but he can't bring himself to shatter the moment of peaceful respite.

"Quite right," Dorian seconds, and though the memories are ugly his tone is light. Bull smiles as he feels the mage snuggle in against him for roughly the tenth time (knowing too that he'd deny every last bit of it). "I am glad I have a brute to come to my rescue, either way," he adds quietly. Said brute reclines a little, settling in, and has to shift the mage's weight to a more comfortable spot. As he does so, he happens to notice a bit of residual effect from their romp when his fingers brush over the 'vint's smooth stomach and trail down towards his groin. 

Bull's regret smacks him suddenly: never, not in the months they've been an item, has he _ever_ taken his pleasure before Dorian's. The realization that he's done so now makes him cringe. After hesitating for a long moment weighing his options, he slides a hand below the blanket and wraps his fingers around the mage's half-hard cock. Gently, he gives an experimental squeeze. Dorian groans tiredly and arches his back, grabbing his lover's wrist to stop him, but the Bull has already gone still.

He's done it dozens of times before: the physical request, then a stillness that breaks only when the mage allows it. Yes or no. More or _katoh._ Never before have his hands been almost imperceptibly shaking when it happened, however.

"Insatiable savage," Dorian chides, completely without heat. He's exhausted, too exhausted to be thinking at all, frankly, and while he knows he _ought_ to stop Bull, he can feel the slight tremor in the hold the other man has on him. The calloused hands are being overly gentle now, eager to make up for their earlier roughness, uniting with the held breath in Bull's lungs to beg him. To let them do their job. Rough has never been an issue for Dorian but every time prior, the Bull had discussed it with him first--almost to the point of driving the mage insane with his cautiousness. There is an element of tension lurking in his lover still that the 'vint doesn't miss, though. 

He realizes with a small jolt that Bull needs to finish him off for _both_ their sakes and as crazy as _that_ logic seems, Dorian doesn't hesitate. Bull feels nothing like the filth that had grabbed him in the clearing--size nor smell nor feel nor method--and the presence of things familiar is a corruscating light that burns the nastiness from his mind.

 _Leave it to me to fall in love with an insufferable romantic,_ the mage thinks but holds his tongue. It is not so much of an imposition. They have done more drastic things for each other in times of crisis more dire than this; Dorian is not wholly impractical, nor is he cold. His Amatus needs to make it up to him, and so he shall allow it. Bull has missed his silent acquiescence, however, and is still refusing to move. The qunari proceeds to whisper:

"I can't leave you wanting when you did so well." It was likely meant to sound seductive; it came out more hushed and sad than Bull intends, but what's done is done. Dorian has gone very still --thinking, no doubt, so Bull tries to make up for his lack of answer in other ways. Kisses as soft as a whisper light upon fresh bruises on Dorian's neck; asking, but not pushing. Patient as always, but his hands are still shaking.

"Do get on with it, you wonderful _ahhh_ ," he doesn't even finish the statement before large but circumspect fingers are massaging the heat between his legs. _Not much of an imposition at all, really,_ Dorian decides, the ghost of a smile on his lips that his lover can't see. The combination of the physical sensation and the words Bull is breathing into his ear is euphoric, especially after two very long days in a drugged-up fog. The mage lets his head drop forward, closing his eyes as the Bull continues working on him beneath the blanket.

"Moaning and perfect in my lap-you are so beautiful, Kadan. Beautiful and handsome and strong and _mine_." Every syllable gusts little puffs of warm air into Dorian's ear and his smile can't quite hold when he's biting his lip to keep the breathy sounds in his throat. "Knew you'd be able to keep their eyes on you. You're so _perfect, _lithe and limber and sculpted in my arms. You caught on so brilliantly." It's revelry, of a sort, and the honesty of it is a bit overwhelming for both of them.__

__"You-- _unh_ \--you did well, too, Amatus. You don't need to--"_ _

__"I want to," Bull says quietly, sending more heat to add to the growing coil of it in Dorian's abdomen. "Every one of them was staring at you entranced." A little too late Bull wonders if the well-meant phrasing came out wrong but a quiet, breathy laugh is his answer._ _

__"I should have guessed you'd delight in showing off," the mage chuckles, not one ounce of irony in his tone. Bull's chest rumbles as he laughs and retaliates by rubbing his thumb in a gentle circle that makes Dorian twitch, his spine curving to match the contours of the warrior's chest._ _

__"Only with you, Kadan. Only with you," Bull promises, lips swallowing the sounds Dorian makes as he comes._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of extensive fluffy sexy times at the end, was trying to avoid "healing cock" trope....I thought I may have already been pushing it.
> 
> Thoughts and comments always welcome :)

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback welcome :) I have crappy 'net right now but rest will be posted soon!


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